


Rose Colored Sentances

by Spoonzi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Minor Self Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unrequited Love, minor sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoonzi/pseuds/Spoonzi
Summary: June Theme: Soulmate AUJaskier‘s views on being Geralt’s Soulmate.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 168
Collections: Geraskier Discord Monthly Event, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Rose Colored Sentances

_ You see the world through rose colored lenses _ , his father had told him when he spoke of gold and silver sentences spiraling over his body and discounted the ones which would appear jagged and broken in black and blue like bruises maring delicate skin. Maybe he did and maybe he always would, but Julian would much rather see the world brightly and full of hope than dim and angry like his parents who’d never even tried to travel and find their soul matches. 

At six years old he dreamt of golden words drifting across his skin to change his life forever, and at sixteen he breathed for the thought of silver words painting themselves across the canvas of his body that would signal his love for someone who would love him back. 

At seventeen he had already left from oxenfurt with his new moniker and a dream of traveling across the land spreading song and finding his soul match. Briefly, at eighteen, he gave up on finding his match and found himself taking anyone he fancied to bed in an attempt to get over the aching feeling of not finding his word match yet. 

At nineteen he never even noticed the words scrawled across his left thigh in beautiful golden script until he parted with Geralt in agreement to meet at Houndstooth in a fortnight. He traced their winding path around the meat of his thigh with awe and tears in his eyes as he lounged in his bath. Both amazed and saddened by their presence, because Witchers don’t love and Bards love far too much. 

_ They don’t exist… the monsters in your song. _

By twenty-one he’d adventured with Geralt many times though he had never stayed near the older man for long enough to get attached to him. By twenty-one Jaskier had also garnered a reputation for his bedding of anyone attractive and receptive that he came across. He wouldn’t admit that the two things correlated. 

He was twenty-five when he paid a knight of Cintra to beat him nearly to death after the royal party when he finally found the silver words looping around his thigh beneath the golden ones. They were beautiful and haunting in the way they reminded him of a bride's garter looped around her thigh to be removed by her groom's teeth. He hated them and loved them all the same because they proved that his love was real and malleable. 

_ I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.  _

He almost dies at twenty-eight coughing up his own blood and trying to decide between clasping his fingers around any piece of Geralt he can find or gripping his fingers bone white around his thigh where he’d been absently tracing his words since he’d gotten them. It’s his own fault, he knows that. He shouldn’t have tried to take the djinn, but it had hurt so damn much that Geralt had insulted the singing that had made them both well loved and famous. 

Jaskier knows before he even strips his clothes that night in his small room at the inn that he has more words looping around his thigh. Right where his silver words end starts slashes of deep blue like veins carved out of his skin. He tries to scratch all of the words away and he’s successful in the short term with deep slashes of his nails carving out gold, silver, and rose with aching passes. The inn-keep’s daughter tends to the wounds and gives his shaft a good sucking, but even still the words heal as his skin does. 

_ She saved your life, Jaskier. I can’t let her die.  _

He lets a man fuck him when they come back. It’s hard and dirty and angry with him bent over a horse post behind a tavern with his dick still trapped in his trousers for they aren’t even shoved down far enough to reveal his words. He tries to imagine the member throbbing inside him belongs to Geralt but he can’t because he fears the Witcher would be far too gentle with him in comparison to this which will leave him aching and sore as he walks for days filled with regret and shame. 

At thirty-one, in drunkenness and idiocy, he drinks a concoction made by a witch in the west who licked over the words upon his thigh in reverence. She told him it would let him stay with his love longer than life. Realization came with a lack of hangover the morning after and he could only mourn his mortality for moments before he was chased out of the whorehouse for the next customer. 

Julian isn’t even shocked that when he sees Geralt after that on a werewolf hunt in the hills of Coddens his view of life is changed all over again. He manages to stay strong throughout the hunt keeping his focus on jotting down notes for his next ballad. He blames the entirety of his view change on Geralt’s insatiable soft spot for children. 

_ Even if we look scary to you, a witcher will always help a child in need free of coin.  _

He’d never known that you could have more than one golden sentence on your skin but if any set of people could do such a thing it would be the two of them. As always the words twisted around his thigh beautifully stemming like cursive from the end of the sapphire ones that always made him ache for something he wishes he could forget. 

He leaves before Geralt wakes the next morning and doesn’t see him again until just days before his thirty-fourth birthday. The whole adventure is a tiring affair where they barely sleep while they’re chasing down each pod of ghouls as they seem to pop up with no rhyme or reason. In the end, they find that the nests stem from a much larger nest on a forgotten battlefield where they save a lord, lady, and their young children who were traveling nearby. 

The day he turns thirty-four Geralt introduces him as  _ his _ and though it isn’t the way he particularly wants it still thrums within his heart like lute strings. When he traces over the words with delicate fingers in the dying firelight of their camp while the Witcher speaks, he can’t really tell what emotion fills his tears as they trail down his cheeks. He thinks maybe melancholy. 

_ Geralt… and this is my bard, Jaskier _ . 

At thirty-nine he knows that though he is jealous, he is no longer heartbroken at the thought of Geralt being in love with Yennefer. Instead, he finds that he is resigned to it as he watches the older man slip off to her tent with her. He can’t take even a bit of insult from her crows feet comment because frankly he hasn’t changed physically bar his soul marks since that day when he was thirty-one and he knows he has more than a lifetime to spend with Geralt. 

As sad as it may seem, he’s finally stopped resenting his drunken self for the decision to drink that witch’s brew. Now, he only hopes for the day that Geralt finds what has been standing in front of him this whole time. Foolish, he knows. Hopeful, he tells himself. 

He doesn’t rip at his skin this time when he is alone and he can finally look at the bruise blue words stemming around his thigh winding past the midway point of it now and closer to his knee. They look like intricate carvings etched into his skin with razor blades pulling forth the veins he can see under the thinner skin of his wrists. Instead, he visits oxenfurt and beds an aspiring artist. A man who paints his skin with thick paints and covers the words that hurt him so with shapes that remind him of the stained glass in the chapel where his eldest sister got married when he was seven years young. 

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands! _


End file.
